


Uncharted Waters

by magisterpavus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hook-Up, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:25:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6234961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long before the Conclave and the Inquisition, a wayward Dalish elf stumbles across a cocky magister's son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncharted Waters

They were playing hide and seek.

She was hiding; he was the seeker. It wasn't fair - she was far too good at not being found. Frustrated, he crept through the forest on tiptoe like his father had taught him, ears pricked for the slightest of sounds. But she wouldn't be so sloppy as to give herself away with a snapped twig or crackling leaf. Still, she couldn't hide everything, and he thought he heard a soft exhale off to his right, in a copse of sapling oaks.

Excited, he whirled towards it, ready to win, but when he pushed the branches aside it was not his sister standing there.

It was a shem with a very large knife.

He yelped and leapt backwards, ready to flee, but it was too late - a twig snapped, and then another, and he knew there were more of them behind him even before they grabbed his arms, yanking them behind his back hard enough to make his shoulder pop.

The shem with the knife laughed nastily. His teeth were big and yellow and scary. He bared his own small teeth, struggling fruitlessly as the man advanced.

"This one's old enough to work, but young enough to fetch a pretty price," he proclaimed, kneeling and tipping up his head critically. "Bit scrawny, but all the forest rats are." His voice was accented, the vowels twisting every which way, the consonants unnecessarily sharp. Tevinter.

His ears went back. No. _No._ He was free. He was Dalish, not a...a...

The man tried to open his mouth to check his teeth and he bit him. Hard. The man cursed and snatched his hand back, glaring venomously at the small, shaking elf on the ground before him.

He felt the hum of magic in the air. That was the only warning he got before a wave of invisible force slammed him down, wrenching his head back and immobilizing him completely. He tried to open his mouth to scream and found he could not. He couldn't do anything but stare in terror at the mage with the knife, who was opening his lips and touching the metal point to them with slow malice.

One of the shems behind him cleared his throat. "Don't mark him up too badly. He needs to sell."

The mage scoffed, and slashed the knife down.

He did scream then, which only tore the cut across his mouth open further. Blood trickled hotly down his chin and onto his tongue and he whimpered low in his throat as the mage laughed, admiring his handiwork.

"It'll scar," he said with certainty. "But he'll sell."

He might have done more. He would never know what might have happened, because what did happen was that his twin sister leapt from the bushes with a cry and a blazing inferno at her fingertips.

The shems holding him released him to use their own weapons, leaving him to dash desperately away, glancing back as he fled at his beautiful, powerful sister snarling and hurling a fireball at the mage that had dared to harm her brother.

He wiped a hand hastily across his face. It came away red. He ignored it and scrambled up the nearest tree, concealing himself amidst the dense foliage. The sounds of the fight echoed in his ears. His sister howled and the shems' metal clashed and fire popped and spit and then there was a shout and then there was silence.

No.

He didn't dare to move. He could hear the shems moving below him, cursing angrily. _Find him,_ said one. He huddled closer to the trunk. They wouldn't. Tears slipped down his face. He wanted to look, but he already knew what he would see.

_five years later_

He'd been to this tavern before. The barkeep knew him, and silently took his coin with no questions asked. It was stolen; they both knew it. No Dalish elf carried coin like that. Not even one as strange as Echo Lavellan.

He took his drink silently and settled in a remote corner of the tavern, watching the customers over the brim of his mug. A couple of shabby city elves. A female dwarf and a human woman with biceps bigger than Lavellan's head.

But it was mostly male, mostly human. A group of seedy merchants chatted at the largest table, most of them utterly drunk or well on their way. Some mercenary-soldier types were on the far side of the room; one of them had been eying up Lavellan since he walked in. Lavellan looked away. The man had a grizzled beard and looked forty, at least. He wasn't that desperate tonight.

He was just about to approach the human woman to test the waters when another man walked in.

He was human, too, with nut-brown skin and wavy jet black hair. He wore a long traveling cloak, but despite this shoddy attempt at disguise Lavellan could see a hint of brocaded robes beneath it. His brow furrowed. A nobleman? But then he looked at the man's face. No. Too young. A nobleman's son, he amended.

Very young, actually. Lavellan had to admit he was irritatingly handsome, too. He had elegant brows and a classical nose, his lips were curved in a perpetual smirk and his jaw was strong and sharp. In the dim light Lavellan couldn't quite make out the color of his eyes, but they were heavy-lidded and lined with kohl.

The young man, who was probably used to being stared at, slowly met Lavellan's gaze, pausing on the tavern's threshold. Then his smirk widened and he went to the bar, turning away with a swirl of his velvet cloak.

Lavellan sighed and took a sip of his drink, only to find there was none left. Well. That was just...he sighed again, a bit more long-sufferingly, and set his empty mug aside.

"There always seems to be so much until it's all gone, doesn't there?"

Lavellan froze and looked up at the sound of the distinct Tevinter accent, only to see the young nobleman's son standing there.

Oh. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Lavellan's mouth twisted. He wasn't really in the mood anymore. "What're you doing this far south?" he snapped. "The knife-ears back home not good enough for you?"

The Tevinter's eyes widened. "How did you-" He quickly smoothed over his panicked expression and waved a hand. "Don't be ridiculous. I just happen to find the Free Marches charmingly rustic. And their occupants even more so!" With that, he sat down opposite Lavellan, offering him a blindingly white smile.

Lavellan kind of wanted to punch him. But that hadn't ended well in the past, and besides, up close his eyes were quite a lovely shade of blue-gray. Like a stormy sea, he thought. He hadn't seen the sea in a long time.

So he didn't punch him. Instead he said, "I'm assuming you're not a slaver, then?"

His stormy sea eyes widened. "What? No! Ah, no. I didn't intend to frighten -" He shook his head and stuck out a hand. "Dorian, from Qarinus. Not a slaver. Just a...thrill-seeker."

Lavellan didn't take his hand. "I'm Lavellan. You're a little young."

Dorian raised an eyebrow, thoroughly affronted. "Excuse me, Lavellan, I'll have you know I'm nearly twenty. And I'm not certain you should be talking - how old are you?"

Lavellan wasn't sure he wanted to answer that. "Old enough," he said shortly.

Dorian's eyebrow went up higher. "Mm. And you're all alone? That's hardly safe, I hope you know."

Lavellan huffed. "I can take care of myself. And I probably know this area much better than you."

"Is that so? Perhaps you could show me around, then."

Lavellan blinked. He was...this Tevinter was flirting with him. "If you want to sleep with me, just say it," Lavellan said shortly.

Dorian seemed unsure of what to do with that. He opened his mouth, then closed it again quickly. But he also wasn't leaving.

Lavellan tapped the rim of his empty mug. "Buy me a drink and I'll blow you," he told Dorian. "Offer stands for the next ten seconds."

Lavellan didn't think he'd ever seen someone order a drink so fast.

x

"Do you make a habit of this?" Dorian asked breathlessly against his lips as the tavern door closed behind them.

Lavellan pressed closer to him. The night air was freezing. "Does it matter?" he shot back.

Dorian's hands were warm and broad on his slim hips. Stupid, huge humans. "Not to me," Dorian assured him. "Here, this way."

Lavellan faltered. "The alley is perfectly fine -"

Dorian gave him a horrified look. "I would have to disagree," he said. "I have a room in the inn. Do you object?"

"No," Lavellan grumbled after a beat. "Let's just get this over with."

Dorian chuckled and took his hand. "You underestimate me, Lavellan."

x

Dorian's room in the inn was, Lavellan suspected, the nicest one they had. The Tevinter unlocked the door and revealed a surprisingly large bed, a decent rug, a clean washbasin, a curtained window, and a bag of Dorian's own things off to the side. Lavellan spotted more silk and brocade within it, alongside the golden glint of coins. Lots of coins.

Dorian closed the door behind them and Lavellan hesitated to turn around to face him, trying to steel his nerves. Dorian's hands encircled his hips again, this time from behind. Lavellan tensed when Dorian's body pressed warmly against his own, and then there was a faint hum in the air and -

Lavellan pulled away abruptly, whirling to face him. "You're a mage," he accused, heart pounding in response to the magic he had felt under Dorian's skin, thrumming powerfully. He wasn't a mage like his mother or sister, but he was sensitive to magic, and this Tevinter had a lot of it.

Dorian stared at him. "Yes...is that a problem?" Maybe he saw the fear in Lavellan's eyes because he sighed and held up his hands in surrender. "I'm a magister’s son with incredible talent for casting spells, it’s true, but I’m no evil cliché and I'm not going to use magic on _you_ , if that's what you're afraid of."

Lavellan licked his lips. They were suddenly very dry. "I'm not afraid of you," he whispered.

"Good," Dorian said, and then he closed the distance between them and they were kissing again and the backs of Lavellan's knees hit the bed. He folded down obediently, sitting on the edge of the soft mattress, confused when Dorian just kept kissing him. He was an annoyingly good kisser, too.

Lavellan's kissing style was a bit messy and a bit nippy but he'd never received any complaints. Dorian, though...he kissed like it was his mission to make Lavellan's legs turn to jelly. Soft and sucking and deep and so alluring it took Lavellan several seconds before he was able to tear himself away and shake his head at Dorian.

"I don't have all night," he said sharply.

"Right, of course," Dorian murmured, and then he was dropping to _his_ knees and his hands were on the front of _Lavellan's_ breeches and...what? What?!

Lavellan scrabbled at Dorian's shoulders. "W-wait, this isn't...this wasn't the...the deal-"

Dorian, crouched between his legs, tilted his head. "What if I prefer this to the deal?"

Lavellan was breathing hard, strings of white-blonde hair hanging haphazardly in his flushed face. "Why would you...that doesn't make any sense," he croaked. A magister’s son, on his knees in front of a Dalish elf? It sounded like the start to a bad joke.

"Doesn't it?" Dorian countered, his hand dangerously close to Lavellan's crotch. "You're a handsome elf. I'm curious to see what you taste like."

Lavellan made a choked sound. He did not know what to _do._

Dorian bit his lip. On anyone else, it would have come across as demure and uncertain; on him it was deliberately sultry. "Only if you would like, of course. If my advances are unwelcome, I sincerely apologize -"

"No," Lavellan whispered, his legs falling open further. "You...are welcome to, Dorian."

Dorian grinned up at him. "You won't regret it, Lavellan," he promised, undoing the ties to Lavellan's breeches and pushing down. Lavellan was bare beneath them, and Dorian made a soft, approving sound, kissing Lavellan's thigh lightly. He shivered.

Dorian paused. "Has...anyone done this to you before?"

Lavellan's ears were hot. He looked anywhere but Dorian when he shook his head.

Lavellan had expected many possible reactions to that. What he did not expect was for Dorian to moan and swallow down half of Lavellan's cock in one go. Lavellan's spine bowed at the sudden wet heat and he let out a strangled gasp, arms flailing uncertainly at his sides.

Dorian pet his thigh calmingly and sank down further, Lavellan's cock filling out fast in his mouth. He hummed approvingly and Lavellan squeezed his eyes shut, finally settling on digging his fingers into the sheets, knuckles ivory. He didn't dare make a sound except for his frantic, staccato breaths. Those were impossible to control. 

If Dorian was a good kisser, he was even better at this, tongue dancing and cheeks hollowing. Was this how it felt when Lavellan did it for so many others? If so, he should charge so much more than a drink for it. His entire body was pliant under Dorian's mouth, and when Dorian pulled off to breathe and mouth teasingly at Lavellan's balls he actually whined.

Dorian glanced up at him, eyes dark and lips swollen, still smirking. "See what you've been missing out on? Silly elf. I don't even need to use my magic on you."

Lavellan trembled, half of him hating how easily this Tevinter had seduced him, half of him too turned on to think straight. "You..." he closed his eyes. “You could," he said. "You can." Wordlessly, he took Dorian's hand and guided it between his legs and further, until the mage's slender fingertips brushed his entrance. He trembled again. His fingers flexed in the sheets.

Dorian regarded him seriously. "Have you...?"

Lavellan had. First, with a man who offered him a large sum of money; second, with a man who Lavellan had been too drunk and far gone to stop. Dorian was neither of those. He was a man who was driving Lavellan mad with want, and if he walked away right now Lavellan thought he might cry. Tevinter or not, he had been more than kind enough so far and he was undeniably attractive.

So he nodded. "Yes," he said. "Not often, but..." He exhaled shakily. "I want to."

Dorian hesitated, then his face cleared and he nodded too, and Lavellan twitched in surprise when magic prickled the air and the fingers pressing against him became suddenly slick.

"Oh," he whispered as Dorian's fingers opened him, warm and careful. "Ah..."

"Just a simple grease spell," Dorian murmured.

"Feels..." Lavellan slumped back against the mattress, lifting his hips. It felt much better than the previous times. It was almost soothing. Then Dorian's fingers connected with something that made Lavellan jerk upright with a stuttered moan. The mage stroked it again and he shuddered. Then Dorian dipped his head down and took Lavellan's cock in his mouth while stroking the spot and Lavellan almost came right there. 

Dorian seemed very pleased with himself. Lavellan was red-faced and panting. "You're overdressed," he told the mage irritably.

Dorian still had his ridiculous cloak on. "Hm, am I? It's rather cold here in the south. I'm not at all used to - oh!"

Lavellan had reached up and yanked the cloak's fastening open, so that it fell in a dark, billowing wave from Dorian's shoulders. The robes underneath were tight and finely made, embroidered with swirling gold and silver designs which Lavellan traced with a wondering fingertip. The thread, he was quite certain, was actual gold. It was an obscene display of opulence.

Dorian laughed softly and began to undo the complex buttons and ties of his tunic, shrugging it off his broad shoulders and faltering when Lavellan reached for his belt, covering his smaller, paler hands with his own and undoing the buckle for him. Unlike Lavellan, he had bothered with smallclothes, and Lavellan's knuckles brushed purple satin, damp from sweat and arousal. Up close, Dorian smelled like spices and citrus, but underneath the perfume Lavellan smelled the dust of the road on him, and he clung to that as he shuffled closer. It almost made him forget he was about to let a magister’s son fuck him. 

Almost. The realization jarred something in him, and his hands froze on Dorian’s thighs abruptly. Before he could snatch them away, Dorian’s own hand was on his face, fingertip sliding over the scar on Lavellan’s lips. Unlike the last Tevinter who had touched it, he was gentle, but Lavellan flinched back nonetheless. His sister’s dead face flashed through his mind, golden eyes mirroring his own but empty and glazed, blood staining her freckled skin and pale hair. She’d died because of him. She would have burnt Dorian to a crisp, not gotten into bed with him. Yet there he was. 

Once a coward, always a coward, Lavellan thought bitterly to himself. 

Blissfully ignorant of Lavellan’s confliction, Dorian tilted his head. “What’s it from? A daring wrestling match against a bear? A particularly wild halla? A ceremonial blade gone awry –”

“You,” Lavellan snapped, turning his head away. “It’s from your people.”

Dorian paused, confusion giving way to pained epiphany. “My...oh. I…see. So that’s why you asked if I was a slaver.”

Lavellan looked at him warily. “I’m not a slave,” he said. “The men who did this to me are dead. They failed. I’m free. I won’t be a slave to you, either.”

Dorian made a low, thoughtful noise. “I never asked you to be,” he murmured. 

“Then what do you ask of me?” Lavellan retorted, relaxing slightly, hands heavy on Dorian’s legs. He could feel the tension in the muscles beneath, and more than that, he could see the tantalizing bulge in the purple smallclothes, hear Dorian’s soft intake of breath when his palm brushed over it. 

“Does your previous offer still stand?” Dorian quipped, still so annoyingly composed and debonair. Lavellan wanted to break that composure into a million pieces. A part of him truly wanted to reduce this pampered, polished mage to the barbaric monster he’d always seen Tevinters as. A part of him doubted it would be very difficult to do so.

In answer, Lavellan moved up on the bed, laying against the pillows invitingly and spreading his legs. 

Dorian removed the purple smallclothes like they were on fire. Lavellan made a very pleased sound. Humans, for all their many, many flaws, tended to be much better endowed than elves. It was one of the few facets of them which he could appreciate. Deeply. 

“And to think I said you were too young,” Lavellan mused against Dorian’s lips as he loomed over the elf, the warmth of his body and the magic within it making Lavellan’s heart pound faster. 

“You still haven’t told me how old you are,” Dorian pointed out, breath tickling his ear and sending a hot spill of heat through Lavellan’s stomach. “It’s nearly impossible to tell with you elves.”

“Too young,” Lavellan admitted, wrapping a leg around Dorian’s hips, lashes fluttering at the contact. “You’re probably the youngest I’ve had.”

Dorian didn’t stop at that, exactly, but his lips slowly lowered to Lavellan’s neck, peppering it with tiny kisses and bites as he worked his fingers back inside, taking hold of Lavellan’s flushed cock with his other hand. “You shouldn’t let them touch you,” he said, barely audible against Lavellan’s throat. “You deserve better.”

Lavellan snorted. “Like you?”

Dorian barked out a laugh, too loud to be real. “No, not like me,” he said. “Hardly.” Lavellan didn’t miss the note of self-deprecation in his voice, and it made him wonder, for just a moment, before Dorian’s hand twisted and all discernible thought spiraled off into nonsense. “I wonder if I could make you come just from this,” Dorian remarked off-handedly, like he was talking about the weather. “Hm. I wonder how long it would take.”

“I wonder if I could get you to shut up,” Lavellan said, and in a proud moment of remarkable dexterity and daring, he heaved himself up, knocking Dorian backwards with a loud _thump_ and straddling his thighs. The position was doing interesting things for both of them, and when Lavellan stroked his own cock slowly over Dorian’s taut stomach, Dorian’s cheeks turned pink, lips parting. Well. Silencing him was easier than expected. But he could do better than that – Dorian’s cock nudged insistently against the slickness of his hole, wet and hard and wide at the head, and when Lavellan rubbed down against it the mage moaned and grasped his hips with sudden urgency, eyes large and bright. It was oddly endearing. 

But other than that, Dorian didn’t make a move. He seemed to be waiting for Lavellan. Lavellan narrowed his eyes. “What are you waiting for?” he asked.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Dorian said breathlessly. “I assumed you were taking charge. What, you didn’t expect me to just flip you and mount like a brute, did you?”

Lavellan’s breath caught audibly; his hand faltered. He could not be more obvious if he tried.

Dorian noticed. “Oh,” he said, considering, and then the world spun on its axis again and Lavellan was pinned, his back bared to the air and his cock trapped against the soft sheets. Dorian’s palms slid up and over his spine and Lavellan closed his eyes tight, lifting his hips, presenting. Any moment now, Dorian would close the distance between them and press in to take his pleasure. But the moments ticked by and still there was nothing but the sweep of Dorian’s hands and the warm kisses he placed across Lavellan’s neck and ears. Lavellan squirmed under him, because he was ready, he was open and empty and on the verge of begging, and yet Dorian seemed content to fondle him carefully like some precious object. 

“Less petting, more mounting,” Lavellan grumbled into the pillows, arching up against Dorian with purpose. “Or have you never done this before?” he jibed, hoping to insult him into action.

It didn’t work. Dorian just chuckled against the back of his neck. “I’ve done this more times than I can count,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Just not… _this_ , precisely.”

Lavellan frowned. “‘This?’”

“With an elf,” Dorian clarified, and Lavellan’s frown deepened. He glanced back at Dorian doubtfully.

“No? Never took a pretty _servus_ to your bed?”

Dorian shivered at the use of Tevene but frowned right back and shook his head. “I may not be a wholly good man, but I do pride myself on practicing wholly consensual sex.”

“Ah, the noble Tevinter,” Lavellan said, rolling his eyes. “Well, get on with it, sate your curiosity. I suspect we’re not actually that different, just smaller and twitchier, but do tell me if I’m proven wrong.”

“Not that much smaller,” Dorian said in a dark voice, hand curving under Lavellan’s body and around his cock, squeezing firmly. “And I think this is more about your curiosity than mine, Lavellan – you were the one ogling me first, after all.” His weight settled more squarely on Lavellan and his cock dragged up against Lavellan’s inner thigh. Lavellan opened his mouth to argue but Dorian’s words tumbled in a smooth purr over his own. “You were the one who offered to blow me.”

Lavellan moaned, suddenly imagining that original offer, his mouth watering for it, bucking desperately into Dorian’s grip. “You’re right, fine, fine, I’ve never bedded a Tevinter before,” he gasped.

Dorian’s teeth found his ear, grazing the shell and tugging. “I suspect we’re not actually that different, but do tell me if I’m proven wrong.”

And then he was lined up and pushing in and Lavellan’s body bowed with the shock of being so suddenly, gloriously full, his elbows shaking and then giving out from under him as Dorian seated himself fully within. Dazed, Lavellan thought distantly that he could feel Dorian’s pulse up against his shoulder and inside him and it was terribly disorienting. Dorian’s voice was soft and concerned against his ear but that didn’t make any sense, none of this made any sense, there was a Tevinter inside of him and he was _making sure Lavellan was alright._

It made him angry. He shoved his hips back against Dorian, hard, ignoring the dull ache that followed. He didn’t want some rich mageling fool who fancied himself a hero. He wanted the savage beast of a man he’d been warned would snatch him up at night, the magister with chains and a staff and cruelty in his hands. He wanted to know that his fears had not been in vain, that they were all like the men who killed his sister, that they were all monstrous brutes. 

“Fuck me,” Lavellan hissed, hyperaware of Dorian’s gentle grip on his waist, hating his tenderness. “Or do you think I’ll break?”

“Lavellan –”

Lavellan moved back against him again, harder. His cock was burning against the cool sheets, and Dorian was just as aroused. His hands tightened on Lavellan’s waist. It wouldn’t take much. “I want to feel you,” he murmured, twisting his head back, exposing his neck and biting his lip. “Make me feel you. Take me. Now.”

Dorian’s grip became bruising. He groaned, and nodded, and drove in hard and fast and sharp enough to tear a curse from Lavellan’s lips. The slap of their skin was obscene and Lavellan buried his face in the pillows, letting his body go pliant, letting Dorian take and take and take, his body aching but content in knowing that he’d been right; they were all the same and no amount of charming words and prettiness could change that. 

But then Dorian was stopping, and pulling back, pulling out, and Lavellan stared up at him as the mage nudged him onto his back, eyes wide and unfocused. “Up,” Dorian said, and it didn’t make any sense until he huffed fondly and hefted Lavellan up into his lap, onto his cock, and again the breath was knocked out of Lavellan all at once but this time there were no pillows to hide in and somehow the drag of Dorian’s cock was sharper, sweeter, enough to make Lavellan keen and grind down greedily.

He felt Dorian’s smile against his cheek. “Angle,” he said simply, and then he was moving again, and Lavellan was moving with him, clinging to Dorian’s shoulders and moaning loudly into his neck as he bounced helplessly on the mage’s cock. His own cock, dripping and untouched, brushed against Dorian’s belly on every down stroke. Oh, Creators. This – this was not –

“It is very difficult to hate you when you’re doing – ah – this,” Lavellan said without meaning to.

Dorian shoved him against the headboard and sucked at one of his nipples, lapping over the tight pink bud mercilessly. “Good,” he said, hitching Lavellan’s hips up with his own until Lavellan cried out, head lolling back against the headboard and forward onto Dorian’s chest. His legs, splayed awkwardly on either side of them, managed to wrap around Dorian’s waist more securely, until Lavellan felt anchored, caught and confined but not against his will, not at all, nails digging fiercely into Dorian’s back and eyes watering from overwhelming pleasure. 

It was almost a surprise when he came, loudly and suddenly, heat splattering their stomachs and Lavellan’s whimper lost in Dorian’s shining skin. Dorian’s hand rested on the small of his back, holding him there almost protectively, and Lavellan winced at the oversensitivity but still pressed back, tightening around Dorian until the mage followed suit with a quiet moan, hips shuddering as he spilled inside of Lavellan. Wet heat dripped down between Lavellan’s thighs but for once it didn’t make him feel ashamed and used. It made him feel rather accomplished, and utterly exhausted. 

Dorian lowered him slowly to the pillows, brushing locks of hair out of Lavellan’s face. He leaned down to kiss Lavellan’s red mouth, and collapsed atop him in a tangle of sweaty limbs and sticky skin. Lavellan’s eyelids were heavy but he kissed back clumsily, as best he could. “Beautiful,” Dorian told him when he broke the kiss. “Smaller and twitchier and beautiful.”

Lavellan exhaled unsteadily. “They killed my sister,” he said, unsure why he did but feeling like he had to say it eventually. Dorian froze, clearly bewildered. “The slavers,” he added. “I was twelve. That was five years ago. I’ve hated you Tevinter shems ever since.” He sighed. Dorian rolled off of him.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Dorian ventured.

“I know,” Lavellan replied, and in a strange impulse he reached out blindly to take Dorian’s hand. 

“What was her name?” Dorian asked after a beat. “Your sister.”

Lavellan closed his eyes. “Enya.”

“Requiem aeternam dona ea et lux perpetua luceat ea,” Dorian murmured, and Lavellan glanced at him, startled. “Grant her eternal rest and let perpetual light shine upon her. It’s a funeral rite.”

“Oh,” Lavellan whispered, and folded himself into the curve of Dorian’s side silently, looking into the ocean of his eyes. It was easy to get lost in them. They were terribly beautiful, and he was tempted to say so. “You were given a chance to hurt me and you did not,” he said instead.

The ocean darkened. Dorian’s hand was on his back again, and this time it was definitely protective. “You cannot make me into something I am not,” Dorian said. “Just as I cannot make you a slave. Nor would I wish to.” He dipped down and kissed the scar over Lavellan’s lips carefully. “I hope no one ever does.”

Lavellan nestled closer. The air was still cold. “I don’t actually know if I can walk just yet,” he admitted. 

Dorian laughed, and there was no bitterness in it. “Then I suppose you’ll have to stay,” he said smugly.

“I shouldn’t,” Lavellan sighed. “Someone in my Clan might actually miss me.”

Dorian hummed. “What’s a Dalish elf doing cavorting with shems instead of frolicking through the forest?”

“What’s a magister’s son doing slumming it in the Free Marches?” Lavellan shot back.

Dorian’s lips twisted wryly. “So I shall have my secrets and you shall have yours.”

Lavellan hesitated. “Will you be back?” he asked.

Dorian stared at the ceiling, the ocean crashing and rolling in his stormy gaze. “I am a firm believer in fate, my dear Lavellan,” he said. “Who knows? If it is meant to be, may our paths cross again. Perhaps a long time from now, when you’ve gotten those funny lines on your face and I’ve managed to grow a respectable mustache.”

Lavellan snickered despite himself, running a finger over Dorian’s bare upper lip. “A mustache,” he repeated incredulously. And then...he could see it, if he tried hard enough. It wouldn’t make him any less annoyingly handsome, probably. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Dorian grinned, and his eyes crinkled up at the corners. He would have wrinkles there, someday, but for now the skin was smooth and youthful. “Good,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> And then you can imagine the chaos that ensues when Inquisitor Lavellan meets Dorian at Redcliffe (and realizes that damn mustache looks so much better than he imagined it would).


End file.
